Segullah's Blog, page 48

Pondering about the Temple

I returned a few minutes ago from attending the temple. Cars packed the parking lot; people waiting for the next session (a good hour and a half wait) filled the chapel and overflow area. The organist played “Be Thou Humble” and “I’m Trying to be Like Jesus,” both of which were particularly appropriate for me right now.

Because of counsel received there, and echoed here, I want to be very careful about what I say. I will tell you that I believe, as I wrote here, that the temple is for real. I believed it then, and I believe it now.

I had a lot of time to ponder before the session began. And this is what I thought about:

I. God of Miracles:Mormon 9:7-11

7 And again I speak unto you who deny the revelations of God, and say that they are done away, that there are no revelations, nor prophecies, nor gifts, nor healing, nor speaking with tongues, and the interpretation of tongues;

8 Behold I say unto you, he that denieth these things knoweth not the gospel of Christ; yea, he has not read the scriptures; if so, he does not understand them.

9 For do we not read that God is the same yesterday, today, and forever, and in him there is no variableness neither shadow of changing?

10 And now, if ye have imagined up unto yourselves a god who doth vary, and in whom there is shadow of changing, then have ye imagined up unto yourselves a god who is not a God of miracles.

11 But behold, I will show unto you a God of miracles, even the God of Abraham, and the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob; and it is that same God who created the heavens and the earth, and all things that in them are.

I taught the Old Testament Gospel Doctrine lessons last year. The lesson that has stayed with me the most discusses the Abrahamic Covenant. Ever since I taught it, I have noticed repetition of the phrase “the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob.” It appears in the context of referring to miracles (see, for example, 1 Nephi 17:40 and Alma 36:2, referring to the Israelites’ deliverance from Egypt). This has changed the way I understand the temple: the blessings promised to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, which used to be available only to prophets, can also be mine.

II. Condemn Me Not: Mormon 9:31

31 Condemn me not because of mine imperfection, neither my father, because of his imperfection, neither them who have written before him; but rather give thanks unto God that he hath made manifest unto you our imperfections, that ye may learn to be more wise than we have been.

This was actually the title of an early blog post I wrote for Segullah, Condemn Me Not. I think it is one of the most important verses in all of scripture. There will always be a dissonance between the ideal and the real, and I pray for the strength and grace to refuse to condemn–to see imperfections clearly, that I may learn to be more wise, but to do so without condemning good people for their mistakes.

III. God is No Respecter of Persons: Acts 10:1-4, 9-15, 34-35

1 There was a certain man in Cæsarea called Cornelius, a centurion of the band called the Italian band,

2 A devout man, and one that feared God with all his house, which gave much alms to the people, and prayed to God alway.

3 He saw in a vision evidently about the ninth hour of the day an angel of God coming in to him, and saying unto him, Cornelius.

4 And when he looked on him, he was afraid, and said, What is it, Lord? And he said unto him, Thy prayers and thine alms are come up for a memorial before God.

…

9 ¶ On the morrow, as they went on their journey, and drew nigh unto the city, Peter went up upon the housetop to pray about the sixth hour:

10 And he became very hungry, and would have eaten: but while they made ready, he fell into a trance,

11 And saw heaven opened, and a certain vessel descending unto him, as it had been a great sheet knit at the four corners, and let down to the earth:

12 Wherein were all manner of fourfooted beasts of the earth, and wild beasts, and creeping things, and fowls of the air.

13 And there came a voice to him, Rise, Peter; kill, and eat.

14 But Peter said, Not so, Lord; for I have never eaten any thing that is common or unclean.

15 And the voice spake unto him again the second time, What God hath cleansed, that call not thou common.

…

34 ¶ Then Peter opened his mouth, and said, Of a truth I perceive that God is no respecter of persons:

35 But in every nation he that feareth him, and worketh righteousness, is accepted with him.

***

Such a dramatic change for the early Christians, to allow the uncircumcised Gentiles full access to the blessings of the gospel. I love the story here: Cornelius, righteous and devout, prayed to God for additional blessings, and God spoke to His prophet, who was humble enough to receive and implement revelation. Some of the early Christians chastised Peter for eating with Gentiles, which had been against the law, but he explained his vision to them, and they rejoiced: Acts 11: 18 “When they heard these things, they held their peace, and glorified God, saying, Then hath God also to the Gentiles granted repentance unto life.”

IV. Family History–One Hour a Week

I wrote last year in January about the challenge to do family history for one hour a week. This does not necessarily have to be finding names to take to the temple–it can be indexing, writing family stories, organizing and scanning photos, going through Family Search and adding sources in, or attending the temple with a family name. I have not maintained the Facebook Group too well during the last half of the year, but I will recommit to reporting this year and invite anyone who wants to to join. It is a low-stress goal–just an hour a week. If you want to, you can report once a week and tell us what you’ve been working on.

If you’ve been to the temple recently, tell me what scriptures were in your heart as you performed the ordinance work. Please follow the counsel given here in your comments.

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My Book of Mormon Fail

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I missed all of the Saturday sessions of General Conference in October. I was on a plane flying from Dublin back to my home in Texas.  I tried valiantly to get my laptop connected to the plane’s wifi and did hear the announcement about two-hour church. But I had entirely given up hope of a decent connection by the time Women’s Conference rolled around. I figured I’d catch up later that week.

 

Within hours of landing I heard lots of buzz about many women I knew taking a break from social media and reading the Book of Mormon by the end of the year.  The social media fast seemed reasonable; I’d gone on one a couple of months earlier and it gave my life a lovely breath of freshness and freedom. But I had just begun a very earnest and deep study of the Book of Mormon the month before.

 

I am not a scriptorian. Although I love the Book of Mormon, I have spent much more time “likening it unto myself” than worrying about which Nephi was which. I savored the messages of the love of Jesus Christ and the lessons about the Pride Cycle. But I can’t tell you who, exactly, the Anti Nephi-Lehies were or which kings were bad or good. So when my kids went back to school I began an in-depth examination of the Book of Mormon.  I’d pull out my scriptures, three study guides and read a few verses and try to understand all the different aspects of the verse and then write a journal entry about what that meant to me. After a month of that I was barely through first three chapters of 1 Nephi. But it was great, and I was learning so much!

 

And then came this exhortation to start speed-reading through the Book of Mormon, the complete opposite of what I had been doing before. I initially dismissed the message to read the entire Book of Mormon by the end of the year because I had just started my new study plan and was loving it. After a couple of weeks, though, I expressed my concerns to my husband about not following the prophet. My husband reassured me that the prophet would be happy with what I was doing. But I wasn’t being obedient. Not exactly. And wasn’t that a recurring message of the scriptures, to follow the prophet?

 

Every time I sat down with all my study guides and my journal I felt guilty about not doing what the prophet had said. I would hear constant messages at church about how much everyone else was growing and thriving by this new super-concentrated Book of Mormon reading. So after a month I sat down and figured out how much I would need to read each day to catch up and finish the Book of Mormon by the end of the year.  It was not a small number. But I started reading.

 

And I did not like it one bit.

 

I felt like I was trying to guzzle a bucket of water every day instead of savoring a few mouthfuls.  But that was what the prophet asked me to do! But I hated it! And it was soooo muuuch reeeeading!  I eventually ended up doing what I always do when I can’t figure out exactly what the right choice is: I quit.

 

I quit my in-depth study. I just felt like I was being rebellious and not heeding the words of the prophet every time I sat down with all my books laid out before me.

 

And I quit my reading plan of getting to the end of the scriptures by the end of the year because I was angry that someone (even if he was the Prophet) was telling me to do something that I did not enjoy at all and honestly felt a little hollow, like I was just checking off a box.

 

After all my angsty deliberations, I was so far behind that I would never catch up so why even bother?

 

So mostly I did nothing and felt guilty about that for all of November and December. Which I can now see is not at all what the Lord or the Prophet would have wanted. But you know how Satan is called the deceiver? Yeah, he’s good at that.

 

I also felt angry at myself for not more humble and teachable and that I can’t simply do what the Prophet says unless I mull it over in my mind for a few weeks first. I mean, do I believe he’s an actual prophet who is telling me the word of the Lord? If so, then what’s the problem?

 

I’ve always claimed that if the prophet tells me to do something, I will absolutely do it (such as allowing the extra holes in my triple pierced ears to close back in the 90’s). But it turns out I’m a lot more stubborn and prideful than I would care to admit. Apparently if I can’t study the scriptures my way, then I don’t want to do it at all.

 

Instead of increasing my testimony, this exhortation to read the Book of Mormon showed me what a lot of my weaknesses are. Which is a good—but unpleasant–thing. You can’t change if you don’t know what’s wrong! So I’m starting this new year with a deeper awareness of what I need to do to become a better servant of Christ. I’ve had several more epiphanies about my weaknesses that are too complicated to go into in a simple blog post. But let’s just say that the Prophet’s command to read the Book of Mormon by the end of 2018 still had a powerful effect in my life, even though I didn’t do it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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New Year and Medias Res

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It’s that time again. Lots of talk about beginnings and endings, welcoming your new life, and releasing your old self. Blah. To be fair, I see the value in ushering a new wave of months’ promises and a fresh starts. I swing between embracing the invitation for blank slates, and thinking it’s all a trick to make us buy, question, and think our way into a new year neurosis.

Now, this isn’t a great way to start off a hopefully somewhat uplifting blog post, however, just hang with me for a bit. I believe in beginnings and I believe in endings, but as I’m ringing in more new years, year by year, I’ve begun to think they are more of a blurred impressionistic painting rather than a completed pragmatic picture.

This year I listened to a trusted woman give a talk and ask those attending to start noticing and write down when we feel enough and lack of enough in our lives. She went on to say that the opposite of scarcity was not abundance, but enough. Admittedly, I didn’t record as much as I had hoped, but in one entry after listing when I felt enough and not enough, I wrote the following observation: “I’m seeing and feeling that the enoughs aren’t necessarily supposed to fill the hole, or desire for more. It’s not a linear line with a start point and end point, but something more circular that hopefully is spiraling upward. A satisfaction with being both undone and enough.”

I went on to write, “But even in moments when I feel enough, there’s still a kind of missing out on deep desires or experiences. Always a nevertheless, however, meanwhile, and still, but if not – a kind of tired anticipation.” Dang conjunctive adverbs I thought. Always out to get us with their neverthlesses –leaving us to wonder about how to deal with the middles, and the in the mean times.

I’ve come across a few examples lately that, to me, are perfect representations of beginnings, endings, enoughness, and in the middles.

A story that always reminds me that we are perpetually in the middle, is a beautiful eulogy Steve Jobs’ sister wrote. The whole thing is a stunning thread of love notes, but one line stopped me in my reading tracks, “We all – in the end – die in medias res. In the middle of a story. Of many stories.” She goes on to explain how this helps her know life is as it should be because we are all in fact, in the middle of it.

I’ve been on a total fan girl bender this holiday season, and have done a deep dive into Milk Bar founder Christina Tosi’s world. I love her attitude, grit, style, and yes, of course, her baked goods. In an interview with Debbie Millman (her episode on Chef’s Table on Netflix is also a must see), she says to “embrace, embrace, embrace the burnt batch of cookies.” She explains how burning a batch of cornflake crunch for a fancy recipe led her and her staff to her bestselling cookie recipe. A perfect rallying cry to accompany her own 2019 goal: make bigger messes.

All of this implies a certain satisfaction with being continuously unfinished. And maybe that’s why I was drawn to both, because I’m feeling a lack of truth in beginning and ending lines, and am hungry to be gracious in the middle. That’s also, of course, the rub- to find a kind of calm embrace and energetic knowing within the hazy lines of starts and finishes. Allowing them to add to the richness of being perpetually undone and uplifted – while pushing us on to the up and up as my grandma would have said. So, here’s to a year full of happy messes, embracing the middles, and being enough to us all.

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Suicide: Let’s Talk About It

Family and suicide

Three of my family members died by suicide: a grandmother, an aunt, an uncle. Decades ago but the pain still echoes through the family. Why did they do it? Was it mental illness? I want to sleuth it out, uncover old journals, crawl around the family tree.

Now, in the past year, one of our children has had suicide ideation. Is it inherited? Or due to the fact we’ve moved around a lot? Or maybe I’ve caused it (tiger mom, not pushing enough spinach and beets, a blind eye as my kids binge YouTubers and TV)? Or, or? Is it something else entirely?

We talked with our child about their suicidal thoughts. We listened. We cried. We saw a counselor. The first one wasn’t a good fit. We saw a second counselor. Let’s be honest, the new one wasn’t fantastic either. Late in our sessions I learned she had files full of useful information and handouts she only shared with me when I asked and persisted. I am still ambivalent if she was helpful for my child.

But my child is still alive, so that’s something.

Friends and suicide

One of my best friends, Nicole, committed suicide when we were in tenth grade. We’d been in Jazz band together, traveled to Disneyland, had slumber parties together. She was Catholic and her boyfriend wasn’t; her parents wanted her to break up. I lived down the street and heard the ambulance that afternoon. She shot herself in her bedroom.

At her funeral, her sister told mine, “Don’t let this happen. Be a better sister than I was to Nicole.” Her family moved away shortly afterwards.

Faith and suicide

Recently at church we had a suicide prevention counselor come and talk with youth and adults. The consensus was split: half of the parents liked what she had to say, the other half didn’t, and some wondered why we had to talk about suicide at all.

Suicide. I don’t know much about it, but I do know this:

Talking about suicide doesn’t cause it.
You can’t just ignore it and hope it will go away.
You can’t wish away depression or suicidal thoughts.
No amount of spiritual worthiness – prayer, fasting, scripture reading, temple attendance – can cure this in yourself or a loved one.

School and suicide

There have been two suicides at our high school this school year (since Aug 2018). One of the boys was in one of my daughter’s math class. When they heard he’d died, several students broke down and openly wept (many were 16 & 17 year old boys). Students left the class en masse to mourn. Counselors listened. Orange ribbons wrapped the nearby neighborhood where the boy lived. We asked questions, got few answers.

Facts from the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention

Suicide is the tenth leading cause of death in the United States.

“There is no single cause to suicide. It most often occurs when stressors exceed current coping abilities of someone suffering from a mental health condition.”

“Ninety percent of people who die by suicide have a mental disorder at the time of their deaths. There are biological and psychological treatments that can help address the underlying health issues that put people at risk for suicide.”

Helpful Links and Info:

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

Call 1-800-273-8255

Available 24 hours everyday

Video: Reach out in Love

Links: Suicide Prevention & Ministering

Love. Listen. Learn.

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Segullah’s Top 10 Posts of 2018

“Over the year, the staff and guests have presented many engaging blog posts. If you are a frequent visitor, this is a review. If you are new to Segullah, this serves as a brief introduction to the type of content we publish.

We present the 2018 Top 10 posts by views, presented in ascending order.

 

#10 From April 2018 “Growing Up: On Parenting Teens” by Megan Goates

[image error]Megan notes the growing independence and impatience in her oldest child, but she also notes his strengths and how he contributes positively to the family. “He is getting older, and I am too. We’ve grown up together: he through his childhood and me through my Everest of motherhood.”

 

#9 From September 2018 “Witness to Sexual Harassment” by Karen D. Austin

[image error]Karen describes four situations of sexual harassment, three of them at BYU. “It’s been over twenty years since these four situations occurred, but it’s given me a chance to consider how to respond in ways other than freezing, being stunned, or reporting to unsympathetic ears.”

 

#8 From April 2018 “Your Calling Is to Be an Example” by Michelle

[image error]Michelle wonders if she’s putting her light under a bushel or letting her light shine. She concludes this: “I’ve thought a lot over the years about the example I’m setting for the world. I’m a low-profile girl. But for every person I chat with. . . I am a representative of Jesus Christ. . . . And I hope, I am an example of living the gospel joyfully.”

 

#7 From October 2018 “Let Me Tell You My Story” a book review by Catherine A

[image error]Let Me Tell You My Story is edited by Trisha Leimer & Twila Bird. It shares stories, photographs and painting of refugees. “As disciples we have a responsibility to care for and serve God’s children, no matter their situation. We can be their refuge. We can become part of their story. We can let them into our lives.” 

 

#6 From May 2018 “Can I Handle the Seasons of My Life?” by Megan Goates

[image error]Megan hints at the challenges that summer vacation presents for families with special needs children. “In the past, those ‘I love summer so much!’ posts on social media didn’t make me envious as much as they made me realize just how other we were. We literally could not do those regular kid/summer things.”

 

#5 From March 2018 “‘Family’: Beware the Memes” by Linda

[image error]Linda notes how the frequent focus on family can sting for those living in ways other than the depicted ideal–and that’s many of us. “How do we honor and sanctify the concept but live lives in the grit and groanings of reality?”

 

#4 From April 2018 “How Does It Feel to See Her Sit in That Chair?” by Jes Curtis

[image error]Jes describes an uncomfortable life transition. “Now I am an ex-wife with an ex-husband. It puts me commuting to a career I never thought I would have; it stuffs me solitary into an empty pew every other Sunday; it leaves me all alone at school concerts and parent-teacher conferences and sports events.

 

#3 From October 2018 “When General Conference Hurts” by Emily M

[image error]Emily acknowledges that General Conference is often a positive experience for viewers. However, at times it’s difficult. “What do you do when there’s a talk that’s painful, that hits you badly because it pokes at a place where you are already wounded, or because the doctrine itself is hard?”

 

#2 From February 2018 “Interview with Lisa Valentine Clark” by Sandra Clark Jergensen

[image error]Sandra asks Clark–comedian, actress, author, director, and producer–a range of questions about her creative life and family life. “And I think if someone’s authentic and coming from a real place with feelings instead of what you think people want, it has more value. People want real things. Myself included.”

 

#1 From October 2018 “Yumpin Yiminy: Thoughts on the Social Media Fast” by Linda

[image error]Borrowing a Swedish accent, Linda talks about exerting proper judgment: “Something in our ego-bound brains can send subtle, social messages that if other sisters don’t yump in exactly the same way, the same height, and at the same time, those women are somehow slackers or “less-than” or not fully with the program.”

 

Find more thought-provoking posts by using the Search feature including selecting tags. Also, keep an eye open for the journal (poems, fiction, art and more) posted here quarterly. You can find previous journal content by using the tabs on the right column on Segullah’s home page. 

Since this is the first “Year in Review” post for the blog, here is a quick glance at the top two posts from previous years.

2017: Searching for a Lost Glove by Karen & Is There No Other Way? by Megan Goates

2016: Mommy Wars: We Are All Outsiders Now by Michelle L & Brother Joseph by Catherine A

2015: Call Me If You Need Anything by Hildie & Surprise: You Can Go on a Mission Early, But You Might Be Judged If You Don’t by Michelle L

2014: The Last Sacrament Cup by Catherine A. & All Things in Wisdom & Order by Catherine A

2013: Should You Let Your Kids Quit Taking Piano Lessons? by Hildie & Elf on the Shelf I Have Hated Him Myself by Hildie

2012: The Battle in Our Brains by Catherine A. & Tell Me the Stories of Jesus by Catherine A

2011: Teaching Your Child to Fail by Rosalyn & Help Wanted: Extend the Reach of Relief Society by Sunny Smart

2010: A Different Tithing Story by Emily M & A Woman of Grace by Michelle L

2009: The Fascinating Girl by Melissa M & Up Close: Rushing into Remarriage by Guest (Anonymous)

2008:  Funny Pioneer Stories by Emily M & Christmas Letters 101: Writing Advice by Shelah

 

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“Happy Half-of-a-Century to you!!”

The other night, I was the only adult playing board games with a herd of teenagers. We were playing with a set of pre-made charade cards. They laughed when I didn’t know what “dabbing” was or how to act out “making it rain.” But when I got my “Michael Jackson” card, I saved face and did a mean moonwalk across the kitchen tile. I wondered how they must see me. In less than a month I hit the big 5-0. That looming birthday seems to attract introspection as much as the “prepare for retirement” advertisements in the mail. I’ve been reflecting a lot on my life. The thought of how fast time goes by is not lost on me. Difficult questions pass through my mind. How did I get here? Am I where I thought I’d be? How do I train myself to not hit two spaces after a period?

When I was 10, my Aunt was 50. I distinctly remember wondering what prompted her to get liposuction and the bags under her eyes removed. She was old! She’s earned her body lumps. Embrace it! Right? Now that I am here, I wish I had saved money for the possibility that I might want it too. I swear the bags under these eyes are genetic – not from lack of sleep or squinting to read or too much binging on Medieval Epics.

When I was 20, my parents were 50. I was so impressed by how young they looked for being so old. Their hair hadn’t turned silver like so many other people. They still had a spring in their step despite their coming demise. Now that I am here, I am grateful for my hairdresser and the marvelous work she does covering my growing wisdom. The spring in my step? A step is about all I can do. The other day I tried jumping in the air with both feet at the same time and gloried in my one-inch clearance of the floor. That might not be enough to get me over the waiting grave, but it certainly will clear a lego that a grandchild has left on the floor.

At age 30, I was killing it. I had married and just had my first baby. I lived in Germany and got to travel in amazing places and snuggle with my little whippersnapper at night. I had married a man more than 20 years older than me. Suddenly, 50 seemed so young! How judgmental I was in my twenties. Age is just a state of mind. Look at my man, I thought, He has a brilliant career. A sports car. He is healthy. He is starting a new life with me. I don’t believe in mid-life crisis. Now that I am here, I am fully aware that I was his mid-life crisis. Our first date was in that sports car. Luckily, now that my crisis is in it’s full-blown arc, I can pull out that same now-classic sports car from the suburban garage and go for a spin to ease the angst.

By the time I was 40, I had four kids. We had moved several times and were deciding on a place to settle down. I was thoroughly caught up in the hubbub of young children and the complete and wonderful toll they take on your life. In fact, I don’t remember much of my 40’s. This is the point where a decade passes like a year. No one really tells you about that. I remember my son being in size 2T pants and then suddenly buying men’s 32s for him. My older friends would always give me a pat on the back and say, “Enjoy it when they are little.” I found it very condescending to hear that. Mostly I wanted to poke them in the eyes…but not until after I had cleaned up all the food from under the highchair and the broken glass from my favorite vase. Now that I am here, I want to yell that mantra from the rooftops, “ENJOY IT WHEN THEY ARE LITTLE! ENJOY THEM! ENJOY EVERY SPILL AND CRY AND NIGHT OF ROCKING THEM TO SLEEP!” Because when they move out, you go in their quiet room and lay down on their empty bed and weep like a banshee with the phrase, “Where did the time go?” playing over and over again in your mind.

50. A half a century of life. So far, I have learned many things about love and God and people and when to speak my mind and when to keep my mouth shut. But one of the main things I learned is that my life has been the most magical and adventurous when I acted out of my wants and not my needs. I compare it to going to the grocery store every day to get food because you need to fill your belly versus deciding to try out that exotic Turkish restaurant on the corner where you sit on pillows and watch belly dancers while hot spices warm your mouth. If you live your life making conscious choices that enhance it, everything seems to be happier. You move in a space of love and wonder instead of just existing.

It’s taken me 50 years to create this life and be exactly where I am right now – this messy, beautiful, and happy life. There isn’t any other place I’d rather be and quite frankly, I’m just not ready for the alternative.

What have you learned in your decades here?

Photo by Lorene Farrugia on Unsplash

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Let There Be Light

Packages are unwrapped and Santa has come, but for most, Christmas is not over. The tree is still lit, families are still gathering, and we continue to bask in the light of all that we love about Christmas. So I wanted to share this short message I wrote for a choir concert I participated in during December. These thoughts have been on my mind throughout the weeks of Advent. They are words that rose out of my heart and filled my soul when I paused on the purpose of all our celebrations.

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It is Christmas. And the world is a bustle. We carefully place ornaments on the tree, make our lists, and check them twice. We shop for the perfect gift, brave holiday traffic, and remind certain children that coal in their stocking is still a possibility.

Sometimes all this bustle begins to feel more like a hustle.

But these profound stanzas, written by an unknown poet in the 15th century, remind us why we honor Christmas.

Lo, in the silent night

A child to God is born

And all is brought again

That ere was lost or lorn.

Could but thy soul, O man,

Become a silent night!

God would be born in thee

And set all things aright.

With one miraculous, but largely unnoticed birth, a tiny babe in His mother’s arms came to set things right.

Christ, the great balm of Gilead, the Redeemer, the Hope of all the World, was born to restore all losses, all people separated from us — all. He would become our magnificent repairer of the breach, the High Priest of Good Things to Come, our Deliverer.

Consider the poet’s words… Can our souls become a silent night? Can we quiet the noise, the doubts, and the distractions long enough for him be born in us? Long enough to hear that familiar voice:

“My peace I give unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, nether let it be afraid.”

This is Christmas. The babe of heaven moving down into our space, shutting out the darkness — moving right in front of it, eclipsing the night with His Light. It is this Savior-to-be we are celebrating, rushing around for, spending our days for…

and isn’t it something… that a wise Heavenly Father hid His greatest gift in the most humble of packages? In the hay of a crude manger, nestled against the warm cheeks of a virgin mother.

Today, Jesus remains hidden in so many things. He is hidden in the face of the beggar on the corner, in the bright and resilient eyes of the children. He is hidden in our hurt, in our grief, and in our failure.

We are all wanderers in this weary world. But to each of us He says, “Let there be light. I am with you. I have come. Your Emmanuel. Your Messiah. Your Savior. Your Everlasting Light.”

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Christmas Redux

{The author of this guest post has asked to remain anonymous}

The box of Christmas presents arrived from my mother for the kids last week, just in time to put under the tree. The kids knew better than to open any packages, so they set it on my bed.

I opened the box and started pulling out wrapped gifts. I could immediately tell there weren’t enough. She had wrapped up in paper and ribbon and bows gifts for SOME of my children but not others. Swear words ran through my head. I’m almost 40 years old and this woman is still emotionally terrorizing me in the name of love.

I called her and asked as politely as possible what was up, and she (so, so kindly) responded that some of the kids were just not as loving toward her as others so she didn’t know that they would even *care* if they got something from Meemah. Her life is so transactional. ‘Show me love (in the way I tell you) or you get nothing.’ Her tone dripped with a kind of syrupy love and care that is reserved for inauthentic interactions with work acquaintances as you meet at the copy machine and listen to talk about co-workers’ colonoscopies.

My sister and I have worked for years to figure out how to change this dynamic in our own homes. We talk almost daily as we struggle to change the narrative in our own timelines. But every time mom surfaces into our lives, her chaos and turmoil are left in every corner of our home. My kids are so confused by her transactional and selfish nature, not sure how to reconcile the way grandma is “supposed” to be with the much messier reality.

I threw all the gifts in the trash and told my kids the box never arrived. I realize this is rescuing my mom in some ways, but are my ‘out of favor’ kids old enough to deal with my mother’s unkindness? I’m not even old enough to deal with it, I’m realizing…

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Book of Mormon Challenge Accepted—and Mangled

 

[image error]This past October, when President Nelson issued the challenge for LDS women to read the Book of Mormon by the end of the year, I could hear my father’s voice booming in the back of my head:

“If you are going to do something, do it right.”

I had just accepted a full teaching load after years of part-time work, and the materials were all new to me–including one section based on ancient Athenian democracy. The classes were all writing intensive; the paper grading load was immense. How was I going to read the 239 chapters of Book of Mormon between October 7th and December 31st?  That’s 531 pages on top of all my other work.

But his challenge came with a promise:

“As impossible as that may seem with all you are trying to manage in your life, if you will accept this invitation with full purpose of heart, the Lord will help find a way to achieve it. And, as you prayerfully study, I promise that the heavens will open for you. The Lord will bless you with increased inspiration and revelation.”

(from “Sisters’ Participation in the Gathering of Israel” 2018 October General Conference).

I had no confidence that I could set aside time to read, mark up my scriptures, pray and ponder. I was failing to keep up with paying bills, doing laundry, washing dishes, and buying groceries. My daughter had recently made herself just a sandwich on one half slice of bread. Why? The only bread we had in the house had green mold on the other half of the slice. If I couldn’t keep mold-free bread in the house, how was I going to find time to complete the challenge?

So I didn’t even start.

Until November. After hearing other women at church and online talk about their efforts to clear roadblocks so that they could read, I was eventually motivated to start the challenge.

Altering that authoritative voice in my head, I declared, “If you are going to do something, you just have to do it—even if you do it very badly.”

I downloaded an app to help me keep pace and found a paperback copy of the Book of Mormon that I could shove into my purse. I gave myself permission to be a careless reader as long as I completed the chapters assigned to me by the app.

To encourage me to get something out of my “just get ‘er done” method of scriptures study, I committed to annotate at least one verse per column and to write at least one key word on the top of each column.  I often had to go back and reread if I noted that I wasn’t marking up anything as I sped through my chapters for the day.

Did I read the Book of Mormon in quiet moments in the morning with sunshine filtering through the window as I enjoyed epiphanies? No.

I read while my bread was in the toaster, which is why I have crumb-laden and butter-smeared pages. I read in the waiting room at the mechanics where I could barely hear my internal narrator over the sound of cable news and electric screwdrivers. I read between work tasks where half of my attention was spent yelling internally, “I don’t have time for this!” I read during Sacrament meeting where their words mashed up in my head with Mosiah’s or Alma’s or Ammon’s.

I sometimes read so quickly that my internal narrator was merely summarizing passages that contained recurring themes: “righteous will prosper, wicked will be destroyed, contrite heart, preaching of the word, covenants, battle, secret combinations, records, contention, pride….”

Nevertheless, I did experience some moments where I felt as though God was delivering messages to me personally–messages that addressed conflicts that I am experience right now as my nest is emptying, my paid work keeps shifting, and the feedback I’m getting from my ward appears to devalue me as an older woman with no children in tow to help me secure a pew in the chapel.  I marked those speaking–directly-to-me passages with huge five-pointed stars.  I intend to read those verses of the Book of Mormon more carefully in 2019.

More than once, I put the book down and cried.

During the challenge, I find myself thinking more about the Book of Mormon even when I don’t have the Book of Mormon in front of me. Because I am splashing a little bit of oil in my lamp, I can call up verses of scripture as I commuted to work, as I folded laundry, as I walked laps at the gym, or as I woke up in the darkness of the early morning and enjoyed some quiet before I got out of bed to tackle my “to do” list.

So instead of being ashamed that I’m not completing the challenge perfectly, I wonder what gospel-based challenges I might meaningfully mangle in 2019?

 

 

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Best Gift

I’d like to tell you the story of the best Christmas present I ever received. It does not involve a doll, or shoes, or a new dress, or any other tropes from Christmas songs and stories. Not that there’s anything wrong with dolls, dresses, and shoes. They’re great. But they aren’t this gift.

This story begins twelve years ago when my super special, profoundly-disabled son, Jack, was two and a half years old. It was the saddest, darkest Christmas I’d ever had. We were beginning to accept that Jack’s limitations weren’t something he would outgrow. He had just been diagnosed with autism, in addition to the rare syndrome we’d known about since he was a baby. He couldn’t speak. We struggled to take him anywhere, because his behaviors were loud and difficult—not at all age-appropriate or manageable. The present was impossible, and the future terrifying.

The weight of this lifelong set of limitations was pressing down on me and crushing any sense of holiday cheer. I was too sad for Christmas to come. Two songs were my soundtrack that season: In The Bleak Midwinter (James Taylor’s version), which was like a release valve to my pent up emotions, and River by Joni Mitchell. “I wish I had a river I could skate away on,” she sings with deep yearning to escape the jolliness of the season, which she is not experiencing.

She’s sad, reader. And I was too, more than I’d ever been in my life.

*****

Several years later, my husband’s maternal grandmother, Grandma Snow, asked if I’d like to join all my sisters-in-law and girl cousins in making my own porcelain nativity set. Grandma Snow taught porcelain doll-making classes for many years, and was gifted with an expert crafting gene. Her nativity molds are ornate, with large, detailed figures, including massive camels, which comprise a whopping nineteen-piece set. Preparing a set for firing and glazing was a big undertaking. Her granddaughters and granddaughters-in-law met in her basement studio in the evenings over many weeks to scrape the seams and sand the pieces.

Of course, I wanted one of these luminous porcelain nativity sets. They’re gorgeous. But in honesty, I had to tell Grandma Snow, “No.” I couldn’t do it.

As Jack grew bigger and more physically mischievous, and as we added two younger sons to our family, evenings and weekends when Jack wasn’t at school required all hands on deck. It took both my husband and me to simply manage everyone at home. When people would ask me how I had spent a weekend, I’d reply, “We took care of Jack.” It didn’t sound like much, but it took everything we had.

It’s not that I was bitter at this, my parenting life, so much as I was spiritually and emotionally depressed by the endless weight of it.

One Sunday evening about five years ago, we met at my in-laws’ home for dinner. I still remember where I was standing—in the kitchen, near the door—when Grandma Snow walked in, trailed by Grandpa Snow, who was carrying an enormous box.

She walked directly to me and without preamble said, “This is your nativity. I made it for you.”

This octogenarian, who has a halo/puff of white hair, whose neck is always in pain after she had a fall several years ago, who doesn’t have to consider me a granddaughter but who does anyway, who requires anyone who wants one of her nativities to MAKE THEIR OWN—she’d spent I have no idea how many hours doing this great kindness for me. I was astonished.

It was love, in the form of nineteen porcelain people and animals.

Last year, my dad passed away the night before Christmas Eve. We stopped to visit Grandma Snow, now a widow, less than twenty-four hours later. In my raw, grief-stricken state I don’t remember what she said to me about my dad’s passing, but I’ll never forget how we looked at each other, and we understood. I saw compassion in her eyes. She knew how I felt. It radiated from her and warmed the numbness from me.

I saw the same thing a week later when she came to my dad’s viewing on a dark, icy winter’s night. She’d come, though she worried about walking on slick paths, when her walking was rickety, and standing in line, since standing was hard. With her daughter and son-in-law holding her steady on either side, she did it.

She came to see me and embrace me. She saw me in my sorrow, and she came, bearing grace and charity.

It was love in the form of showing up.

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